Hindsight
by xXxMusexXx
Summary: Mark reflects on Roger's withdrawal, asking himself questions he isn't sure he has the answers to. However, as his relationship with the rocker unravels through memories, the answer he needs so desperately is brought to light. NOT SLASH!


**Title: **_**Hindsight**_

**Rating: **T for some violence, the general subject matter, and because it's _RENT._

**Summary: **Mark reflects on Roger's withdrawal, asking himself questions he isn't sure he has the answers to. However, as his relationship with the rocker unravels through memories, the answer he needs so desperately is brought to light…NOT SLASH! Takes place just before December 24th, 9 PM, Eastern Standard Time.

**Warning(s): **Dark/Depressing (see the second paragraph of my note below).

**Genre(s): **Friendship/Angst

**Character(s): **Mark Cohen (Model: Adam Kantor), Roger Davis (Model: Will Chase), mentions of other bohemians. Don't like the models? Ignore mentions of their looks and picture them however you want. ^^

'**Verse: **Completely and utterly musicalverse. No strange hybrids like my last one. xD

**Word Count: **Not including this A/N (which is 308 words), roughly 4,350.

**Notes: **I was contemplating Mark's feelings during and after Roger's withdrawal one day, and this ridiculously long oneshot was born. xD I hope you enjoy, but don't be afraid to tell me how much it stinks, haha.

To avoid confusion; the first and third flashback flow into each other, if it isn't obvious – the third is a continuation. ;3

ALSO; seeing as the reviewers of my last (and first, askdjk) RENT fanfiction seemed to agree that that fic was a bit dark, I'm warning you guys now; THIS FIC IS PRETTY DARK, TOO. Nowhere near as dark as "A Night So Frozen, Yet So Scalding Hot" (which I suggest you read AND review *brick'd for desperate self-advertising*), but getting there. I won't say any more on the subject, though; I don't want to spoil anything. C:

AND MY NEXT FIC FOR RENT WILL BE HAPPY-GO-LUCKY, PROMISE. IT'S ALREADY IN THE WORKS. (let's just hope another little plot bunny doesn't attack me, like this one did…)

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. These characters, the setting, and all that good stuff are property of Jonathan Larson - may he rest in peace. I just write about 'em.

**Key:**

'The Present'

'_Flashback_'

* * *

><p>It was hard.<p>

No matter how uneducated and childish those words may sound, they are all I can use to describe Roger's withdrawal. **Hard. **Because it **was.** It hurt, seeing him like that. It hurt, knowing the only other person who could share his pain had given up already. "How can he live knowing she abandoned him?" I remember asking myself as I watched him sit by the window, watched him in one of those rare moments where he wasn't having a shaking fit. "How can he live knowing she left him to die alone?"

Well, I guess he wasn't alone. He had me. Mark Cohen, his roommate. But I couldn't empathize with him. I couldn't even come close to understanding what he was going through. I was the meek little filmmaker, the **healthy** little filmmaker, and I still am. Watching him grow thin, **sickly,** was like looking at pictures of Holocaust victims. Their ribcages poking at their skin, their spines making noticeable ridges on their back...it was horrific. Enough to bring me dreams - nay, **nightmares** - of Roger just withering away into nothing, **disintegrating into ash.** It was **painful.** I worried over him night and day, was **with him** night and day, taking care of him as best as I could.

I didn't know what I was supposed to do. It's not liked I was trained in this kind of thing or anything. It was all trial and error, learning as I went. Collins was there for a while...maybe a month or two? He helped some. As much as he could. But he had a job; he couldn't hang around, no matter how much he might have wanted to. He knew it was going to be a struggle. Me, the scrawny, frail filmmaker against the taller, stronger musician? Sick or not, he could still beat the shit out of me.

And, sometimes...he did.

* * *

><p><em>"Roger! No! This isn't you, it's the <em>_**withdrawal!"**__ I pleaded, shielding my face with my arms as his fists rained down upon me._

_"I want it, Cohen! __**Move!"**__ Roger screamed, oblivious to my cries._

_I was backed up against the door, on the floor, trying to keep the musician from escaping through it. Roger was kneeling in front of me, attacking me with all he had, desperate to get out the door and find that unhealthy release that was cocaine. We were two months into his withdrawal...two months and six days. And God, did I want nothing more for it to be over already._

_I was actually surprised he hadn't tried to pick me up or physically move me. That's what he did during the first month. He would try and drag me away from the door, or hoist me up and throw me. If not for Collins' strength, I'm sure we'd have lost Roger early on. It seemed, though, that the musician was starting to become aware - if only a little - of what he was doing. Emphasis on 'little', though; he didn't seem to mind breaking my nose or even throwing things at me. The coffee pot's life was effectively ended when he tossed it at me the other day...I'm so, __**so **__lucky it hit the wall instead of me._

_"You don't want it! You __**know **__you don't!" I screamed back, biting my tongue to prevent myself from crying out. He kept on shouting, ignoring me, red-faced. The punches seemed to be getting progressively harder, not softer as if he was tiring. I wasn't sure how much longer I could last. My arms were probably covered in bruises at this point, and my glasses were getting jostled with every other hit when my forearms ricocheted back into them. I couldn't afford another pair of glasses right now; not with Roger's AZT being as expensive and hard-to-get as it was. __**Everyone **__needed it these days...HIV and AIDS were an epidemic almost, capturing whatever poor souls it could in it's web. There were times when Benny - who no longer lived with us, but with his new girlfriend, Allison Grey, whom both Roger and I __**hated **__- would come back from an AZT run and say there wasn't any left for him to buy. He'd try the next day, and maybe, __**just maybe, **__he could find a bottle to bring to Roger._

_"Why are you doing this to me, Mark? __**Why?" **__Roger had lapsed into the expected second part of his fit; hysterics. The first couple times we got to this point, I almost broke, but my resolve had hardened over the past two months. Roger's body was making him feel this way...the need to shoot up. He wasn't upset with me. Not really. His body was. His __**addiction **__was._

_His blows were half-hearted now, thankfully, but my arms still ached every time one struck home. _

_"I need it, Mark! I need it! Why don't you understand?"_

_I opted to say nothing at this point, knowing any protests would fall on deaf ears. I just waited for him to stop...what else could I do? _

_I also took stock of my injuries; my arms, obviously, had seen better days, but there was definitely more. Roger has punched me hard in the face, which was why I was on the floor in the first place. I could feel something red and warm dribbling down my chin, which I assumed was blood. My back was also a bit sore from slamming into the door, and I just felt this overwhelming __**tiredness**__..._

_God, what was I doing to myself?_

* * *

><p>I would ask myself those kinds of questions all the time, and never would I find a real answer. What did I have to gain from staying with Roger? It was practically masochism. I was remaining in a place where I knew I would be harmed daily, where I knew I would miss meals regularly, where I knew that I would always be put second.<p>

"How did I get here? How did I get into a position where I'm suffering every single day, biting back tears, working towards what seems like a lost cause?"

But...there was always a reason. Not necessarily an answer to any of those questions, but a **reason.** A reason as to why I was suffering through all of that. I had nothing to gain, no, but staying was the right thing to do. Roger was my best friend - had been since I met him the first day of middle school, when he moved to Scarsdale. Roger always fought for me...he stuck up for me when no one else would. When people picked on me for my size, my infatuation with film, **anything,** he told them off. He made sure they knew not to mess with me...not to mess with Roger's friend.

* * *

><p><em>"Pass it over here!"<em>

_"Yeah, nice toss!"_

_"Over here, over here!"_

_Tears pricked at my eyes. "You're going to break it! Give it back!"_

_The brown-haired one just laughed and held my camera high, out of my reach. I jumped for it, but he just lifted it higher. "What's wrong, Cohen? Gonna cry like a little baby now?"_

_"Give me my camera back, Joey!" I pleaded, which only caused the three boys to laugh harder._

_"Oh, just give it back to him, Joe." Gregory, another one of my classmates, said in a sickly sweet tone._

_I, stupidly, allowed myself to hope._

_"Yeah, he's askin' __**real**__ nice." Ken, who was the shortest and ugliest (by __**far**__) the trio, said close to my ear. I shuddered, not at __**all **__comfortable with this. Gregory was at my left side, and Joey in front of me but just a bit to the right, meaning all routes of escape were blocked off, should they try something. But I wasn't considering this at the moment; right now, I was just so concerned for my camera. It had been a Christmas present two years ago from my mother...it meant the whole world to me. If they broke it, I...I don't know what I would do._

_"Okay." My heart soared. "Here ya go, Cohen."_

_Then, he dropped it, and my hopes fell with it._

_I dove for it, landing hard on my knees in the dirt. I barely managed to catch it in time, and I held it tight to my chest, sobbing with relief. My camera...I had almost lost it. The one possession I couldn't bear to lose..._

_"Look at this, boys! Crybaby Cohen's having another fit!" I heard Ken say._

_"Should we get your blankie, wittle baby Cohen?" Gregory asked, as if he was speaking to an infant. I didn't look up; I just clutched my camera like it was a cure for cancer, trying to figure out what I was going to do. They had me boxed in; I wasn't going anywhere. There was also no way that I could take them down, them being so much bigger than me. We may have all been in the sixth grade together, but I wasn't the brawny type...I was the brains type. I was small, short, and geeky. They were big, tall, and seemed like giants compared to me. What was I to do?_

_"Nah, guys." Joey's voice, slick and unforgiving. "He just needs some toughening up. Let's help him, eh?"_

_Before I can react, they're all kicking me with whatever eleven-year-old strength they possess. I curled up in a ball instinctively, rolling onto my side, shielding my camera as best as I could. Ken's unmistakable blue sneaker rammed into my face and I cried out, removing a hand from my camera and covering my face. My glasses had split right in two at the bridge, leaving me practically blind and dazed by pain. _

_"Hey! What do you guys think you're doing?"_

_An unmistakable voice. _

_One last hard kick to my back and they're off of me, seemingly turning to the owner of the voice. _

_I slowly lowered my hand. "R-Roger?" I forced out, lifting my head a little and squinting my eyes in an attempt to see. I could make out a familiar shape...a messy blob of light, light yellow, followed by a pale oval. Blackness surrounded what looked like arms, but there was a splotch of green in the center. Was that Roger's black hoodie? He was wearing a green shirt, too, it appeared. Two stems of dark blue extended from that, meeting with two ovals of white faintly rimmed by black. Roger's black Converse? Maybe? Oh, I hated not having my glasses!_

_"You okay, Mark?" Yep, that was Roger. His face/peach oval was pointed at the three bully-blobs in front of him, but his attention was clearly on me._

_"Yeah, I think so..." My voice was pretty wobbly, which really didn't support the claim that I was 'okay'._

_Roger was silent for a moment. I knew he didn't believe me, and that he was growing angry. We'd only known each other for about two months now, but I'd learned over that span that Roger Davis was ridiculously protective of his friends. If someone so much as __**sneezed **__in my direction, he was on them, telling them off. It was nice to have someone on my side for once, but it was also a bit worrisome; I was always concerned for his safety. He definitely wasn't as small as me, but some of the bullies who preyed on me were rather big. Joey himself was a good three or so inches taller than Roger - he was one of the tallest kids in the sixth grade._

_"Why don't you guys pick on someone your own size, hm?" Roger asked suddenly._

_"Like you're any match for us, Davis." Ken scoffed._

_"Oh, yeah?" I could hear the smirk in his voice. "Try me."_

_Colors flashed before my eyes in a flurry and I gasped, pushing myself up onto my hands and knees. One arm still wrapped around my camera, I scrambled away from the fight, cursing myself for getting Roger in such a mess. It wasn't like I could help - I was blind and still in a lot of pain. But...But I had to do __**something!**_

_The two halves of my glasses were tucked into my jacket pocket at the moment, so I titled back onto just my knees and fished around in said pocket, fingers wrapping around one piece. I pulled it out and held it up to my left eye, taking in the scene in front of me._

_Somehow, Roger had managed to get Gregory down. He was currently sprawled out on the grass, breathing heavy. Roger, however, wasn't exactly in the best position; he was rolling around on the grass with Ken, clawing and punching and scratching whenever he got the chance. Joey just looked on with satisfaction. "Typicial Joey," I thought, "letting his lackeys do all the work."_

_Gently placing my camera on the ground, I struggled to my feet, taking a moment to reorient myself before plunging into the heat of battle. I waited until Ken flipped back on top of Roger again and leapt onto his back, wrapping my thin arms around his neck. My right still held the half of my glasses in case I needed it again, but for now, I was back to seeing fuzz._

_Without a second thought, I sunk my teeth into Ken's shoulder._

_I may not be much of a fighter, but I'm a good biter._

_Ken cried out and jumped off of Roger, whipping back and forth in an attempt to get me off. I held on with all I had, teeth still in his shoulder, feeling rather like a ragdoll as he swung me about. My feet were off the ground, which didn't make me feel very secure, but it didn't matter - I needed to help Roger!_

_"Mark, what're you- __**Hey!**__ Don't touch him!" A thud to my left, which suggested Roger had tackled Joey to the ground._

_I was finally knocked off of Ken when he gave a particularly hard twist to the left, sending me flying. I landed on the grass in a heap, biting back a cry of pain. I rolled onto my side and held up the fragment of glasses to my face again, just in time to see Ken lunging at me._

_I dove to the left, just dodging his attack, causing him to faceplant. I was just about to get back on my feet when I heard the voice I had been waiting for._

_"Boys! What is the meaning of this?"_

_All of us froze immediately and turned to face Mrs. Himmelfarb, the principal of our school. Her husband was the rabbi at the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center, which meant I knew her all too well._

_"Davis here's gone crazy!" Joey exclaimed, waving his arms. "Him and Cohen attacked me and my friends out of nowhere!"_

_"I find it hard to believe that Mark would do anything of the sort." Mrs. Himmelfarb looked rather suspicious. "Roger, possibly..." A pout from said blond. "But not Mark." _

_She then turned to me, frowning slightly when she noticed my state. My face was smeared with blood and, of course, I lacked my usual glasses. I still held the one lens to my eye, but that was hardly desirable. "Mark, what happened?"_

_"They were picking on me." I pointed to the three in turn, Gregory coming last. He had pushed himself up so that he was sitting, but he didn't look ready to stand yet. "Roger came to help me and a fight broke out."_

_Mrs. Himmelfarb nodded, expression grim. "Roger."_

_"Yes, Mrs. Farb?" He asked, wiping a thin line of crimson stemming from the corner of his mouth off on his jacket sleeve. He also had a bruise forming on his left cheek. _

_I inwardly cringed, immediately feeling guilty._

_Mrs. Himmelfarb did not look amused. "Help Mark to the nurses' office. Joey, do the same for Gregory. Ken...you look fine enough to walk. Come on."_

_She turned to go, and Ken made a face at her back. Joey grumbled something under his breath and hoisted Gregory up, slinging the redhead's arm over his shoulders. As they passed by me, he sent a glare my way. "You'll pay for this, Cohen. Promise." _

_I gulped and just looked on fearfully._

_Roger ran to my side, gripping my shoulders and looking me over. His pale eyes were full of concern...concern for __**me. **__Why was he concerned for the kid who got him hurt?_

_"You look like crap." He said bluntly, slipping his arms underneath my own._

_I cracked a small, tired smile. "I could say the same for you." _

_He chuckled a little and smiled back, showing his teeth. "Yeah, guess so." He paused, shifting so that he was squatting. "Ready?"_

_I nodded once. "Yep."_

_"Okay." He made sure his grip was secure, then looked back to me. "One, two, __**three**__!" _

_On the 'three', he lifted me off of the ground, making sure I was balanced before releasing me. I inhaled sharply when the tendrils of pain clenched tighter around my limbs, and would have doubled over if not for Roger's steadying hand. He moved my left arm so that it was around his shoulders (like Joey had done, only Roger was more gentle), leaving my right hand free to hold up the lens._

_We walked together without a word for a minute or so, Roger only pausing to scoop up my camera. It wasn't until we entered the school building that I dared to break the silence;_

_"I'm sorry for getting you beat."_

_Roger abruptly came to a halt, causing me to whimper in pain. He then shot me a look I couldn't discern. "Mark, don't go blaming yourself, okay? I helped you 'cause it was the right thing to do. 'Cause we're friends. I could've walked away and let you get your butt kicked, but I didn't. And that's 'cause you're my friend and that's what friends do. So don't go apologizing." A beat. "Plus, beating those guys up was fun."_

_I gaped at him, not saying a thing, for a good few moments. I...I just didn't know what to say. It __**was **__my fault...wasn't it?_

_"We should get you to the nurse. Farb'll kill me if I let you pass out or somethin'." Roger mumbled when I didn't respond, resuming our trek._

_"...Hey, uh, Roger?" I finally said._

_"Yeah, buddy?"_

_I smiled just a little. "Thank you...Thanks for being my friend."_

* * *

><p>Thanks...showing gratitude. I owe so much to Roger. He made my school life bearable, he made my life exciting, <strong>he was my<strong> **friend.** One of the few friends I came to make. I mean, sure, not everyone tortured me, but I couldn't really call the majority of them 'friends'. There was Collins, of course, whom I met the first day of kindergarten (he took an instant liking to Roger when I introduced them), and Maureen, who moved from Hicksville to Scarsdale our ninth grade year.

But Roger...he's the closest friend I have. He's like a brother. Growing up, I only had my sister, Cindy, who was considerably older than I. I never really had a **sibling** to play with, let alone a brother.

Maybe that's the answer I'm looking for. Friends do things for friends...brothers do things for brothers. Roger needed me, so I stepped up to the plate.

But...was I enough?

* * *

><p><em>Solid, continuous pressure on my arms informed me that Roger had ceased hitting me and was now leaning onto me, shaking rather badly. Though, whether or not it was the withdrawal or his sobs, I wasn't sure.<em>

_I opened my eyes and slowly moved my arms so Roger slid into my embrace, enveloping him in a tight hug. He buried his face in my chest, grabbing at my sweater with white knuckles. The warmth of his body against mine was almost unbearable in the late July heat, but I would not allow myself to move...not while Roger was crying._

_"Roger, you're doing the right thing...you know that, deep in your heart. You __**know. **__Shhh, shhh..." I whispered in the most soothing tone I could manage, rubbing circles into his back. He just continued to bawl, holding onto me with all he had, like I was the most important thing to him right now._

_I sure didn't feel all that important._

_I felt like a last resort. The one who 'won' by default. Someone who wasn't truly able to do any of this, but got the position anyway because they were the only option. Like...you know how, when playing pool, you win if your opponent hits the eight ball in before knocking in all the rest of their half? You didn't really win - you just get the title of 'victor' because the other person made a fatal mistake. There was no skill involved...only chance._

_I was the last one standing. It __**had **__to be me who took care of Roger. I was the only person who would do it._

_Roger's babbling broke me out of my reverie;_

_"I'm sorry, Mark. I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You hurt. I didn't mean to. I didn't..." _

_I shook my head, hugging him with all the energy I could muster at this point. "No, no, Roger, shhh. I'm fine, okay? I'm fine. Just..." I swallowed, glad he couldn't see my face, for it was twisted into a grimace. "...shhh..."_

_He was silent, just nodding against me._

_It was my fault...my fault for being so weak. For not being enough._

* * *

><p>But, now…I don't know. Now, I guess, I'm starting to see.<p>

Roger…he came up to me today and asked where his guitar was. He said he couldn't find it anywhere, and that….that he was worried something had happened to it.

Roger…Roger had **cared **about something. He was actually **concerned **about something. His guitar. The fender guitar that had practically been his baby since he got it in high school. The guitar he'd play for hours, singing nonsense along with the chords as Collins and I watched in awe. He always looked so peaceful when behind his guitar…it was the only thing that made him happy back in Scarsdale. Well, besides Collins and I, of course.

* * *

><p><em>"Here comes the sun, doot-n-doo-doo…here comes the sun, and I say, 'It's alright'."<em>

_I smiled wide at Collins, who looked just as pleased, grinning that brilliant grin of his. Roger's voice was just so…__**smooth.**__ Like molten chocolate. The way he sat on his bed, leaned against the wall, eyelids drooped and shoulders slouched, made him look almost…__**ethereal**__ in his own right. Bleach blond hair spiked to a messy perfection, jacket discarded on the floor, combat boots kicked off…it was just another day with the boys, another day of happiness. _

"_Little darlin', the smile's returning to the faces." His voice soared, and the smallest of smiles pulled at his lips. Bright green eyes opened wide and the gentle smile warped into his signature smirk, followed by a wink at the camera I held in my hand. I had been filming the whole performance – it was just too great not to, y'know?_

"_Little darlin', it seems like years since it's been here…"_

_Collins suddenly fished something shiny out of his pocket and, after fiddling with it for a moment, held it up. I realized then that it was a lighter, and he was waving it back and forth like my mother did with her hands in temple. _

"_You're going to burn the house down, Collins!" I exclaimed, eying the flame fearfully. The handle on the side of my camera had stopped moving – I needed to crank it. However, making sure Roger had a place to sleep tonight seemed to come first._

"_Oh, come on, boy," Collins said exasperatedly, "I'm jus' having some fun. You really think I'm __**that **__reckless? I won't be droppin' this lighter anytime soon."_

"_Still…" I was nowhere near consoled._

_Roger abruptly stopped playing and frowned. "Pay attention to me!" He whined in a voice I would have expected from eleven-year-old Roger, not sixteen-year-old Roger. "I'm awesome!"_

_Collins and I glanced at each other, then, after a few beats of silence, burst into laughter._

_Collins extinguished the lighter and pocketed it. "And modest, it seems." He managed between chuckles._

_I placed my camera on the floor beside me with one hand and covered my mouth with the other, trying not to laugh too hard. "Oh, Roger, you're…something, all right."_

"_Something awesome, right?" He pressed, resting his guitar in his lap._

"_You? Nah, never…" I teased, waving my hand dismissively._

_Roger looked dejected, so I smiled in triumph, returning my attention to my camera._

_If only I had seen the devious grin spread across his face, his hand reach for the pillow beside him, the encouraging look from Collins…_

_The only thing I saw was a glimpse of dark blue fabric when his weapon of choice - aforementioned pillow - hit me square in the face._

* * *

><p>I'm watching him try and tune his guitar right now. It's been sitting in my bedroom for the past year, gathering dust. I didn't want to leave it out in the open, lest he break it in a fit of anger or something…he would be devastated. Music was his life…I couldn't dare take that away from him. Not after all he had been through.<p>

But now, as I listen to him mumble obscenities and bang on the poor, poor instrument, I think I've finally got that answer. That solid, undisputable answer. Just seeing him on the road to regaining his former self makes me smile…makes me realize why I did all of this.

While helping Roger through his withdrawal, I let myself get lost in the despair, the **pain. **Only now, as I look back on it, do I see the goal I have reached….**we **have reached. Roger's playing his guitar again. He's clean. He's talking to me. He even managed a smile when I handed over the guitar…I haven't seen him that happy in months.

Hindsight…it's truly 20/20. Everything that happened over the past sixth months…the past **year…**it led to this point.

To the answer.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Ta-da! ;D Happy ending, right? Sort of? Er. Yeah. xD

Anywho. Review, please?


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